


There’s a Monster in My Bed

by canistakahari



Series: vampire Jim [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Halloween, M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychotropic Drugs, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy hates Halloween. Jim, predictably, does not. (Halloween 2011)</p>
            </blockquote>





	There’s a Monster in My Bed

“No,” says McCoy flatly.   
  
“Please?” begs Jim, deliberately widening his eyes and employing what McCoy privately likes to call ‘the irresistible blue-eyed stare of Leonard’s crumbling resolve’. “Bones, you will look  _so hot_. C’mon, it’s Halloween!”  
  
“What part of ‘I hate Halloween’ do you not understand?” snaps McCoy, crossing his arms tightly over his chest in an effort to hang onto his tenuous control over this laughable situation. “Is it the ‘hate’ bit, or ‘Halloween’? The pronoun? I already told you, it’s—”  
  
“‘Forced jollity,’ I know, I know,” interrupts Jim, turning back toward the mirror and straightening his cravat. “But you can’t just show up to a Halloween  _costume party_  without a  _costume_. It’s a masquerade!”  
  
“And I’m masquerading as a Starfleet officer that’s plotting to strangle his captain,” says McCoy stubbornly. “There is no way in hell you’re getting me in a getup like yours.”  
  
Jim sighs and brushes off the blue crushed velvet frock-coat that has no right to look  _that_ criminally good on him. “But I was hoping we could be a matched set. I picked out everything you need!” Jim’s tone is carefully balanced between wheedling and hopeful, but McCoy is experienced enough in Jim’s moods to catch the undercurrent of genuine disappointment there.  
  
McCoy purses his lips, considering. “You forgot your fangs,” he mutters. “Be a pretty rotten vampire without ‘em.”  
  
“Oh, shit, you’re right,” says Jim, briefly distracted. McCoy watches him open the little box containing the fake fangs Jim ordered custom-made to fit his teeth from a speciality supply store on Risa. Then he lets out a huffy breath and turns reluctantly to the storage box sitting at the bottom of the bed.   
  
“If I wear something, anything at all, you’ll be happy?” asks McCoy, digging down between the carefully-layered detritus of several past Halloweens. You could probably carbon-date this shit. Wigs, rubber masks, and palettes of costume makeup are all dismissed and pushed aside until he finally extracts a dusty headband upon which sit a rounded, furry pair of animal ears. He arches a brow and gingerly puts them on.   
  
At least he won’t need to paint his face or suffer through breathing behind a sweaty mask.  
  
“I’d be happier if you wore the costume I spent weeks painstakingly putting together for you and agreed to be the Louis to my Lestat,” says Jim, his reflected gaze fixing on McCoy in the mirror as he fits his fangs to his incisors before he turns around, mouth quirking in a pointy grin. “What the hell are you supposed to be with those on, anyway? A grumpy bear?”  
  
Lots of animals have round ears. McCoy has no idea why he rolls his eyes and says, “Clearly I’m a mouse. Duh.”  
  


oOo

  
  
The masquerade is being held on the surface of Pyris VII.   
  
Being new to the Federation and eager to impress, the Pyrisians had requested information about Earth traditions and customs, and, upon learning that Halloween was approaching, had declared they would hold a costume party for the crew.   
  
Jim, of course, had been completely delighted.   
  
He’s been so delighted, in fact, that he’d spent nearly a week providing the curious Pyrisian ambassador with supplementary material on the subject of Halloween culled from his personal collection of holos and vids.   
  
And so, here they are, standing in a cavernous hall, surrounded by evil-faced jack-o-lanterns, dangling skeletons, and an explosion of black glitter. There’s red tissue paper covering the overhead lights, cobwebs keep sticking to McCoy’s face, and the music consists almost entirely of thumping bass and distorted wailing.   
  
It is exactly like every single tacky student Halloween party McCoy was forced into attending between the ages of 16 and 25.  
  
“What was that you were saying about having to wear a costume to a costume party?” mutters McCoy to Jim.  
  
“Huh?” says Jim.   
  
“Spock,” says McCoy. “Spock is, as far as I can tell, dressed as Spock. Why didn’t you pester  _him_?”  
  
“Because Spock’s not my boyfriend,” says Jim. “So that’s Uhura’s domain. And you—”  
  
“Nice costume, McCoy!” bellows Sulu, mercifully cutting Jim off mid-sentence. He sashays up to McCoy and puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning into him heavily. He smells a bit like fruit roll-ups and gin. “Are you a koala?”  
  
“I’m a mouse,” snaps McCoy. Then, after a pause, he adds grudgingly, “Avast, me hearties. Yo ho, etcetera.”  
  
Sulu brightens, his spreading grin revealing an array of gold teeth. His dark eyes are lined with kohl and the tri-corner hat atop his head is set jauntily askew. “Well, shiver me timbers!” cries Sulu, waving around his cutlass. McCoy ducks out of the way.  
  
“You need to go point that somewhere else, buddy,” says Jim kindly, taking Sulu by the shoulders and jettisoning him out into the crowd. “AHOY!”  
  
“Did I mention,” says McCoy, “that I hate Halloween?”   
  
Jim grins at him, baring his plastic vampire fangs, and even McCoy has to admit that he cuts a seductive, dashing figure in his frock coat, soft leather trousers, and thigh-high riding boots. “C’mon,” he says, slapping McCoy on the back. “Lets go get some punch. I hear the Pyrisians put on a great party and we need to make nice and mingle. For diplomacy!”  
  
“Goody,” mumbles McCoy, trailing sullenly after Jim. “Diplomacy and punch.”  
  


oOo

  
  
To their credit, the Pyrisians know to spike the blood-coloured punch, and McCoy is feeling significantly more charitable after he’s had a couple of drinks.   
  
(They also know to freeze black plastic spiders into the ice cubes, which thrills Jim.)  
  
They’re standing by a coffin that has a skeletal hand dangling out of it when McCoy spots Uhura.   
  
“Hey Jim,” he says, jerking his chin towards her. “You better watch your back.”  
  
Jim’s face breaks into a smile and waves a hand. “Uhura! Gonna stake me?”  
  
Uhura approaches them with a raised eyebrow and small smile. Her long hair is plaited into a braid, and she’s dressed in a form-fitting, functional jumpsuit and flat boots. Strapped to her waist and across her chest are bandoleers of wooden stakes. A crucifix dangles from around her throat and there are tiny bottles of water hanging from her belt.   
  
“Didn’t go for a necklace of garlic, huh?” asks Jim.   
  
“I’m a vampire hunter, not a chef,” she retorts, waving one of her stakes at Jim’s nose. “Is that a cravat?”  
  
“Is that a  _crossbow_?” demands Jim.  
  
“Spock suggested I blend close-combat and long-distance fighting styles,” she replies serenely, turning slightly to show off the weapon on her back. “Don’t worry, captain, it doesn’t actually work.”  
  
“You’re my favourite,” McCoy says earnestly to Uhura. “I like you the best.”  
  
“You,” replies Uhura fondly, “Could’ve at least drawn some whiskers and a nose on your face.”  
  
McCoy snorts. “What about Spock, huh? I don’t see him making an effort either.”  
  
“Spock claims to have come dressed as a Starfleet officer,” Uhura says dryly. “He’s not entirely sold on the concept of Halloween.”  
  
The glare McCoy directs Jim’s way doesn’t seem to have any kind of effect on him. Jim just reaches out, wraps a hand around McCoy’s elbow, and winks at Uhura. “See you, later, arch nemesis. I need to find a dark corner in which to ravish my CMO using my considerable vampire wiles.”  
  
“Hey,” protests McCoy, not really resisting as Jim drags him away, “Nyota, goddammit, aren’t you meant to save me from this? What kind of vampire slayer are you?”  
  
“In this business you learn to pick your battles,” Uhura says sweetly, waving them off.  
  
“You cannot be serious,” splutters McCoy, as Jim navigates through small clusters of drunken crew-members. He’s pretty sure that’s Chekov, bobbing for apples, but all he can see is a cluster of golden curls, so who knows. “Do you know how bad it’s going to look if we get caught? The captain and the chief medical officer necking in a dark corner like adolescents?”  
  
Jim abruptly stops walking, quick enough that McCoy doesn’t have time to stop and thumps right into his back.   
  
“Goddammit, Jim,” huffs McCoy, fumbling to regain his balance. He puts his hand directly into a steaming cauldron full of—of fucking peeled grapes, and he’s about to shove a handful of the disgusting things in Jim’s stupid face when Jim grips him by the forearms and crowds him against the wall, pinning him there with his body.   
  
There’s a hard, hungry look in Jim’s burning blue eyes that makes McCoy’s mouth go dry.   
  
“Jim—”  
  
For one terrible second McCoy thinks Jim is going to go for his throat.   
  
Then he regains his sanity and Jim leans in and kisses him fiercely. McCoy moans despite himself, opening his mouth to Jim and tracing his lips and teeth with his tongue.   
  
Nicking himself on Jim’s fake fangs ruins the moment.   
  
“Ow,” he mumbles, planting a hand in the centre of Jim’s chest and shoving him back.  
  
“What?” says Jim in a rough voice.   
  
“You bit my tongue,” accuses McCoy in a muffled voice as he sucks hard on his own tongue. He can definitely taste blood. “Watch those things, they’re sharp.”  
  
“Sorry,” says Jim. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. In fact, he just  _stares_ at McCoy’s mouth, then reaches out to cup his cheek before burying his face against his throat, nuzzling and sucking a bruise to the surface.   
  
“Stop,” says McCoy through gritted teeth. A shiver runs down his spine and he goes rigid as Jim licks one last hot stripe up the curve of his neck and then  _breathes him in_ —   
  
“Jim, I said _cut it out_!”  
  
Again, reality snaps back into focus as Jim lifts his head, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry.” There’s appropriate remorse in his voice. “Got carried away.”  
  
“I’ll say,” grumbles McCoy. “Those things are a menace.”  
  
Jim laughs and ruffles his hair. “C’mon. There’s a scavenger hunt starting in five minutes. You better believe I signed us up as a team.”  
  


oOo

  
  
“I’m too drunk for this,” mutters McCoy, squinting down at the hand-lettered list in his hands. “What the hell does this say? Bones of your ancestors?”  
  
“Somehow I doubt they want us to go grave-digging,” says Jim, taking the list from McCoy and reading it himself. “Boiled anchovies,” he says doubtfully.   
  
“Can I please just go back up to the ship? I’m about ready for bed,” says McCoy crossly. “I’ve had my fill of gummy worms and witch’s hat cookies, thanks.”  
  
Jim continues reading over the list and reaches absently for another cup of punch. Then he takes exactly one slow sip and proceeds to choke on it rather heartily.   
  
“Whoa,” says McCoy, raising an eyebrow. He claps Jim on the back as he rides out the coughing fit, red punch staining the corners of his lips. “That go down the wrong pipe? You’re supposed to drink it, Jim, not breathe it in.”  
  
“It... got stuck in my throat,” Jim replies, eyes wide with surprise. He takes another deliberate swallow and then brings it right back up again, choking and spitting. “Hrlgh,” he wheezes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and making a disgusted face. “That tastes like shit, anyway.”  
  
“Tasted just fine to you earlier, when you put away three glasses,” points out McCoy.   
  
Jim shakes his head firmly. “That can’t be the same punch.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure it is,” insists McCoy. “Now, are we hunting down some anchovies, or what?”  
  
“No, I need to find something else to drink,” says Jim. “I’m so fucking  _thirsty_. Wait here.”  
  
Jim slips off into the crowd, and McCoy takes his absence as an opportunity to make another unsuccessful attempt at understanding what the hell it is they’re meant to be scavenging. He’s fairly certain something vital was lost in translation, here.  
  
“Doctor McCoy,” says Spock, suddenly appearing at McCoy’s elbow.   
  
It must be some sort of drunken fight-or-flight instinct that slams, shrieking, through McCoy’s body and moves him from leaning casually up against the wall to crouching underneath an ornamental table within the space of approximately one second. There’s no other way to explain why his heart is jack-rabbiting away inside his chest or why he felt it totally necessary to plaster himself all over the nearest solid surface.   
  
“That was... unexpected,” says Spock. There’s a note of not-quite-surprise in his voice.   
  
“Your  _face_ is unexpected!” yells McCoy, covering up his severe embarrassment by crawling out from beneath the table bitching at vehement length about  _stealth Vulcans_  and the importance of not scaring the shit out of decent folk.   
  
“I apologize,” Spock says, folding his hands together behind his back. “Pardon me, doctor. I only sought to ask if you had observed anything...peculiar recently.”  
  
“Does that include your ninja stalking skills?” snaps McCoy, brushing himself off and adjusting his mouse ears.   
  
“It does not,” murmurs Spock.  
  
“Then no, I gotta say I haven’t. Why? What’s going on?”  
  
Spock looks distinctly uncomfortable with what he’s about to say. Fair enough, really, because the next thing that comes out of his mouth is, “I have just assisted Ensign Chekov in halting a sword fight held between Lieutenants Sulu and Mitchell.” Spock pauses. “Both of whom are dressed as pirates.”  
  
McCoy blinks. “Well, they’ve probably been drinking...” he suggests hesitantly.  
  
“While I do not dispute that fact, the aspect of this event I found most alarming was not only do both Lieutenants appear to believe they are in actual fact pirates,” and here Spock pauses again, incredulity layered artfully into his brief silence, “but their weaponry, previously artificial, has physically manifested itself as real.”  
  
It’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that Spock is fucking with him, so McCoy chances a laugh. “Very funny,” he says. He points a finger at Spock and repeats himself for effect. “ _Very funny_.”  
  
“I am not attempting to make a joke,” Spock says flatly. “I have also noted other seemingly unrelated incidents, including a particularly memorable moment when a crewman dressed as a cat rubbed herself all over the furniture and then curled up and fell asleep in Engineer Scott’s lap.”  
  
“Was it Gaila? Was she purring?” asks McCoy stupidly.  
  
“Affirmative. On both counts.”  
  
“Well, what the hell are you suggesting, Spock? Magic?” demands McCoy. “Did anyone think to scan the food and drink? Who knows what’s in that punch. Hell, Jim choked on it just now—”  
  
A tiny frisson of fear lurches unexpectedly down his spine at the thought of Jim.   
  
“Doctor?”  
  
McCoy backs up until he bumps into the wall and then folds in on himself, trying to get away from— _everything_. He’s never felt so fucking small before, his lungs are tight, his heart is thumping like a drum—  
  
“ _Doctor_!”   
  
McCoy jerks his head up and resists the strong urge to cringe away from Spock’s hands as he crouches down in front of him.   
  
“You appear to be suffering a panic attack,” says Spock. He presses two fingers to McCoy’s pulse and McCoy goes utterly still, eyes wide. Maybe if he doesn’t move, Spock will forget he’s here.   
  
“You better not be reading my mind,” McCoy forces out through gritted teeth.   
  
“I am doing no such thing,” Spock says tightly, pulling away from him. For each millimetre of distance Spock puts between them, McCoy relaxes incrementally.   
  
“Right,” says McCoy, still becoming one with the wall. “I need to... find Jim.”  
  
“And I am searching for Nyota,” says Spock.   
  
Their eyes meet, and McCoy’s brain makes a series of implausible, rapid-fire connections.   
  
“Oh Jesus,” he groans.   
  
“It would perhaps be advisable to keep them from interacting,” says Spock.   
  
“Right,” says McCoy, dragging himself reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll try to find Jim and distract him. Do the same with Nyota. Maybe we can figure out what the fuck we’ve all been dosed with that’s causing these hallucinations.”  
  


oOo

  
  
By the time McCoy makes his way back to the main hall, it’s empty.   
  
Smoke drifts between the tables, curling around McCoy’s ankles, slipping through his hair. The thud of his heart is echoed in the drumbeat tremor of the music.   
  
“It’s not real,” whispers McCoy, his lungs tight. “None of this shit is real.” He looks around the mess of the party, kicking aside black-sequined streamers and fallen plastic cups.   
  
Where the hell  _is_ everyone?   
  
Something beneath his feet shudders.   
  
McCoy stumbles, falls to one knee, and then just to add to the whole ambiance of unbridled terror, the lights go out, taking the last shreds of McCoy’s grip on sense and sanity spiralling down into the darkness with them.  
  
He has to get out of here.   
  
It’s too wide open, there’s nowhere to hide, he’s exposed and vulnerable.   
  
His skin crawls until he finds the wall, crouches down against it and makes himself as small as possible. This room is too big, and he can tell, now, that it’s not empty, that there are things moving, shifting, the rasp of skin on skin and the sound of  _breathing_.  
  
McCoy runs.  
  


oOo

  
  
Every new corridor is a lesson in the psychology of fear.  
  
 _Bones_.  
  
Every step is a risk.  
  
 _Bones. Bones, where are you?_  
  
Every sound is a threat.  
  
 _I’m coming to find you._  
  
He’s at war with himself. These aren’t his instincts, can’t be, because McCoy is cautious at the best of times, recklessly selfless at the worst, and he’s no coward, but he’s also finding it increasingly difficult to stop himself curling into a ball and crawling into the nearest appropriately-sized crevice, because Jesus fucking Christ  _everything could kill him._    
  
His vision is painted in shadows and layered with sharp smells and every sound rings like warning bells in his trembling bones.   
  
The cellar he’s found feels no more safe than any of the other rooms he’s hid in, but it only has one door, only one entrance to watch.  
  
Distantly, he realises the music has stopped.  
  
There’s a low-level murmur of voices at the very edge of McCoy’s range of hearing, tempting whispers and malevolent threats, occasional shrieks of laughter and screams. Insubstantial shapes brush past him in the darkness, tugging at his clothes and slithering over his bare skin.  
  
And overriding it all, Jim’s voice at the back of his mind, chanting  _Bones Bones Bones come back where did you go I need you I’m going to find you_.  
  
He doesn’t know quite when he stops looking for Jim and starts hiding from him instead.  
  
After all, Jim reeks of danger, Jim bursts bright in his mind like a falling star and overwhelms him with dread. McCoy can feel him under his skin and tickling at his brain.  
  
But unfortunately McCoy has never been particularly good at hiding from Jim.   
  
 _Bones_.  
  
There’s a flutter of movement and then the air goes tepid and still.  
  
“Come out, come out,” murmurs Jim from the darkness, “Wherever you are.”  
  
McCoy smothers a cry and scrabbles back against the damp wall. He can’t hear or see Jim but he can  _smell_ him, metallic and tangy and cloying in his nostrils.  
  
“Hiding from me, Bones?” asks Jim, closer now, an edge to his voice.  
  
“No,” chokes McCoy. Hiding from Jim? Of course not. How stupid is that? Why would he ever need to hide from  _Jim_?  
  
He’s not hiding from him. It’s just that every nerve in his body is screaming at him to  _run_.  
  
For a moment, everything is frozen, time stretching out between them like an elastic, and then the tension snaps and McCoy throws himself blindly forward only to be pounced by Jim, rolled effortlessly onto his back and pinned by the wiry weight of Jim’s body.   
  
“Ah ah,” breathes Jim, wrapping his hands around McCoy’s wrists and slamming them to the floor on either side of his head. “Found you.”  
  
“Jim,” gasps McCoy. “Christ, get off me, what the fuck are you doing?”  
  
The lights flicker back on, bathing them both in watery red light.   
  
“What the hell are  _you_ doing?” demands Jim, giving him a shake. He blinks eyes that have washed out to violet in the lighting and quirks an eyebrow at him. “I tell you to stay put and then all hell breaks loose and you disappear. I’ve been calling for you for nearly an hour, didn’t you hear me?”  
  
With Jim staring down at him, eyes warm and expression concerned, his earlier panic starts to feel a little silly.   
  
“I think,” McCoy says thickly, “I think there’s something in the punch.”   
  
Jim brushes McCoy’s hair out of his eyes and it takes everything McCoy has in him to avoid flinching at the cool touch.   
  
“Jim?”  
  
“Hmm?” murmurs Jim lazily. His answering smile is sharp.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Hey, can you blame me?” teases Jim, his voice warm and smooth like honey. “I’ve got you underneath me, we’re alone...”  
  
McCoy’s body goes rigid, hands curling around Jim’s upper arms, but when Jim’s mouth descends, it’s to press against his own. And despite himself, McCoy melts, grasping desperately for the safety of Jim’s touch, the familiar press of his body. He closes his eyes, lets go of the buzzing rush of panic, and whimpers, returning the kiss gratefully.   
  
“That’s it,” soothes Jim, licking at his lower lip, sucking kisses into his skin. “Open up. And hold still.”  
  
Jim’s hand winds in his hair, tugging and stroking.   
  
McCoy breathes a sigh of relief.   
  
He’s not expecting Jim’s grip to tighten. He’s not expecting his body’s helpless arousal as Jim tips his face to the side, baring his throat. He’s not expecting the hot press of Jim’s tongue to his throbbing pulse, or his lips sealing over his skin. He’s not expecting the twin prick of fangs.   
  
He’s not expecting it, but he should be.   
  
McCoy’s vision floods with crimson and his consciousness dissolves.  
  


oOo

  
  
And then Spock slaps him in the fucking face and McCoy jerks awake with a yelp.   
  
“ _Leonard_! Spock, is he—?”  
  
“I have him, Nyota. Doctor, are you all right?”  
  
“Jim!” gasps McCoy, struggling briefly in Spock’s steady hands. Blinking repeatedly gets him no closer to understanding what’s going on around him.  
  
He thinks that he’s currently sprawled on the floor with his head in Spock’s lap, and that Uhura and Jim are wrestling with each other about five feet away from them, but a reality fraught with that much incongruous content isn’t one that McCoy really wants to be a part of.   
  
Jim hisses and spits at Uhura, she dodges a smooth right hook, and they roll over and over until they collide with the wall.   
  
“This,” says McCoy fuzzily, coordinating sluggish limbs along with Spock’s help in order to sit up, “is exactly why I hate space.”  
  
“I have scanned the punch, as you suggested,” Spock says, far too calm for someone that’s just watched Uhura casually uppercut Jim. “And there are too many unfamiliar compounds present to make an assessment without hours of testing. However, I believe whatever is present inside the liquid is indeed inducing psychological hallucinations that are directly correlated with...”   
  
“Whatever we’re dressed as?” demands McCoy, lifting a hand to rub at where Jim bit him.  
  
“...Indeed,” agrees Spock flatly. “I believe the effect of the hallucinogen gains strength in relation to each individual’s sense of enthusiasm regarding their costume. I have based this assumption on a comparison drawn between the captain’s response to the punch and your own response. While you gained instincts unmistakably belonging to those of small prey animals such as rodents, you did not lose yourself within your adopted persona as Jim did.”  
  
“Is that so?” snaps McCoy. “Then how the hell did Mitchell and Sulu end up with real pirate swords?”  
  
“They did not,” replies Spock. “I ingested punch also. I am not wearing a costume, however, and the hallucinogen affected me in a slightly different manner. Before finding you, Nyota and I managed to inform our hosts of their error. We believe they are now attempting to help halt the...festivities.”  
  
McCoy tenses as Uhura finally manages to get Jim pinned beneath her and his heart stutters with terror as she raises one of her wooden stakes over her head. “Nyota,  _no_!”  
  
Jim smirks up at her as she falters. “C’mon, Uhura, give it to me,” he purrs.   
  
Nyota’s lips purse. She considers the invitation.   
  
Then she elbows Jim in the temple and knocks him the fuck out.  
  
“Enterprise,” says Spock, speaking into his communicator. “Four to beam up.”  
  


oOo

  
  
“Happy fucking Halloween,” grumbles McCoy, dropping the mouse ears back into the box. “Next year I’m locking myself in my quarters and I’m not coming out until the madness passes.”  
  
“C’mon, Bones,” says Jim cheerfully, flopping down on the end of the bed, “It wasn’t  _that_ bad. Nobody got hurt.”  
  
McCoy raises an eyebrow at him. “How do you classify that shiner Nyota gave you, then?”  
  
“What, this?” says Jim, rubbing at his cheek. “Totally badass, of course. Uhura’s got a mean swing.”  
  
“Idiot,” mutters McCoy, shaking his head. “And what about this?” He points to the bruise on his throat.  
  
“I didn’t even break the skin!” protests Jim sheepishly. “It looks more like a hickey than a bite-mark. I just... had it in my head that you’d taste really good. And I was so thirsty.”  
  
Jim looks at him earnestly, his eyes imploring. Then he smiles, wide and jagged.  
  
A tiny chill telegraphs down McCoy’s spine and he scowls to shake it off. “Take those damn fangs off already,” he demands. “You’re creeping me out.”  
  
He turns toward the wardrobe, stripping out of his shirt. This night just can’t end fast enough. All he wants is a shower, and then maybe a finger of bourbon, and  _sleep_.  
  
“You know what?” says Jim. “I’m still thirsty.”  
  
“So get a damn drink,” snaps McCoy. “Do I look like your keeper?”  
  
When McCoy turns around, Jim is directly behind him.   
  
“Jesus Christ!” yelps McCoy, taking a reflexive half-step back from him and crashing hard into the door of the wardrobe. “I swear to god, Jim, if you don’t cut this shit out, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. I’ve had enough, okay? I’m not in the mood.”  
  
“Just one drink,” says Jim, stepping closer, crowding McCoy against the door.   
  
McCoy’s heart leaps right into his throat.   
  
“This isn’t funny,” he says weakly, twisting in Jim’s arms. He can’t move. “Jim, let go. Please.”  
  
And this time, when he smiles, McCoy is close enough to see that Jim’s fangs are  _real_.  
  
Jim calmly contains his next round of struggling, trapping McCoy’s flailing limbs easily with his own, lets McCoy wear himself out.   
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” says Jim gently. McCoy’s terror ratchets up another notch. “I promise it won’t hurt.”  
  
“Jim,” whispers McCoy miserably. “Please don’t.”   
  
Jim’s teeth glint as they lower to his throat.  
  
And he’s right. It doesn’t hurt.


End file.
